Five
by AsteraceaeBlue
Summary: When faced with possibility of mortality, Molly Hooper aims to find the full experience of life again. She is not alone on her journey.
1. Awakening the Senses

**A little something I've been working on. It's pretty syrupy despite the serious beginning, I promise. Speaking of, this is the part where I warn about the description of a medical procedure that may hit home for some people. Feel free to PM me for any reason at all.  
**

**But really, there's more fluff than angst in this one!**

**All the kudos in the world to MizJoely for the beta work on this! ALL the kudos!**

* * *

**Awakening the Senses**

Molly shivered as the air chilled from the hyperactive AC system hit the bare skin on her chest and arms. Not that the mint green gown that had been wrapped around her moments before had provided much warmth. She still wanted to pull it back over her exposed chest. Modesty wasn't an issue for her, never had been. Especially not when it came to physical exams. Even if she had been embarrassed, the slightly darkened room would have provided enough comfort as she lay on the exam table, eyes nervously flitting between black and white monitors.

"Roll to your left, please."

The female technician was doing a remarkable job of putting forth a calming tone and attitude. She had given Molly such a look of sympathy as she went over the procedure with her that Molly had shrunk down further into the already oversized standard issue gown, wringing her hands at the brief flash of pity on the woman's face as she realized her age. Thirty-four. She knew exactly what the tech was thinking. _Awfully young_.

A long, firm foam pillow was placed beneath Molly's back and she was gently maneuvered to settle against it, placing her at a propped angle.

"Raise your right arm over your head… perfect, just like that."

Just the same as she had done earlier in the day during her routine exam with her primary physician. Just the same as she had done with the ultra-sound tech a mere two hours before. Both events met with quiet, focused looks and furrowed brows. Looks of concern that led her to her current position.

A soft plastic sheet was unfurled and placed over her chest, a square cut strategically to allow for access. The doctor she had met only minutes before rolled to her side on a stool, nodding for the assistant to begin. He was nice. Lovely smile and kind demeanor. Molly tried to focus on that.

"This may be a bit cold."

A swab of antiseptic was dashed across her skin.

"Bit of a pinch, should be over quickly."

She felt the sting of the needle in her flesh, the anesthetic instantly numbing. The anticipation of what would come next made the first injection seem incredibly mild. She tried not to move as she sucked in a breath, her teeth gritting against the feel of the second needle pushing into her breast, working against the firm tissue before another dose of anesthetic was released.

She looked away from the monitor showing the internal path of the biopsy needle before the real procedure began. Her time in med school had exposed her well enough to understand exactly what was happening. She did not need to see it.

Turning her head away from the doctor and technician, she felt a tear slip down her cheek and drop on the sterile papery blanket on the exam table and hated herself for it. Crying in front of total strangers had not been her plan for the day.

They told her they would call within a week with the results.

Half an hour later, Molly tugged her lab coat on, feeling somehow too weak for the effort. Her breast ached even with the anti-inflammatory and small ice pack they had given her. Deciding that catching up on paperwork would be the wisest activity for the rest of her day, she scrubbed her hands over her face, her makeup long gone, and made her way to the lab.

"Why are you late?"

His resounding voice hit her ears before the door had even swung shut. Normally, the sound gave her palpitations, annoying her and thrilling her all at once. Today, she wanted to shove a beaker in his mouth.

Winding her hair into a ponytail, Molly walked across the room to the files, pointedly ignoring his stare.

"I had an appointment," she told him.

"For four hours?" he replied sarcastically.

Her hands slid under a pile of paperwork and she lifted them, wincing when even the slight load caused a pinch in her chest and under her arm. It would be too much to ask for that the pain had gone unnoticed by Sherlock. Schooling her expression, she started walking back toward the door, her eyes flitting up to meet his briefly. He was staring at her with a look of deep interest, taking in every inch of her. He saw it, she was certain. Her hands tightened on the papers, waiting for him to throw his deductions at her.

"When you're done with the paperwork," he said, eyes lowering to the microscope, "I need you to show me a body."

She held it together all the way to the loo. He hadn't been mean. On the contrary, his voice had been nearly entreating. It shattered the resolve she had left. He'd seen the pain she'd been in and hadn't said a bloody word and then he'd been _nice_.

It wasn't a completely foreign attitude for him to take with her since his resurrection nearly a year prior. After stashing him at her flat for a total of a day and the odd text or message delivered by his homeless network while he was dismantling Moriarty's network, they had developed something of a friendship. Over time, the absurdly romantic response she had to his very presence had even waned to a manageable state, though the torch would always smolder for him. She turned into one of the few people who could deal with him and still genuinely like him and he seemed to like her better for it. He was nice to her.

But this was an entirely different kind of nice. The kind that said he was perfectly aware of her fragile state and would therefore take care with her. But he wouldn't come too close, because he was Sherlock Holmes and he didn't do comfort.

She could have done with a bit of that on this day.

Shutting the door of the farthest stall in the bathroom, Molly pulled the pile of papers tightly to her chest and let out a quiet sob, no longer holding back the tears.

* * *

The smell of jet fuel and hot pavement filled Molly's nostrils as she made her way down the boarding ramp at Heathrow. She shifted her shoulder bag as she waited for the families traveling with infants to tag and check their prams at the entrance to the plane, the mild roar of the engines filling the space. Squeezing past the dawdlers, she greeted the flight attendants and checked her ticket again to verify her seat.

A growing sense of anticipation, both frightening and thrilling, started to fill her. It would have been easy to say she was engaging in escapist behavior. Four agonizing days after her test, Molly had spent a personal day at home, staring at the airline website and losing her nerve multiple times. The confirmation button taunted her as she walked through her flat, finishing the laundry she had put off for over a week, making lunch, and looking half-heartedly at a fashion magazine. Halfway through dinner and a bottle of Chianti, she felt a sudden surge of bravery and clicked confirm. The very next day the results came back inconclusive, prompting a second round of tests to wait for.

She wanted to be away from everything, just for a little while. A few days without corpses and the smell of formaldehyde and certain people from Scotland Yard asking for favors and forcing her into overtime. Time to think and be alone.

Mike Stamford had not asked questions when she told him she was using her long unused personal days, starting immediately, but he had given her a slight look of concern.

One day later, she found herself edging down the aisle of the airplane, somewhat giddy as she approached her seat.

Her heart started to pound a little harder when her eyes slid from the seat numbers running along the overhead bins to a mop of black curls below belonging to her seatmate.

"No," she muttered under her breath. "No, no, no, no…"

"Haven't flown economy in many years," Sherlock drawled, flipping through the air catalogue with some loathing. "This should prove to be interesting."

"You are not on this flight," Molly said hotly, shaking her head.

"Seeing as I am sitting here, I would argue otherwise."

"No," she exclaimed. "Y-you are not… I don't want you here!"

"Is there a problem, ma'am?"

For the briefest moment before the flight attendant interrupted, Molly thought she saw a flash of hurt in his eyes. An instant later, it was gone and she was forced to think she had imagined it. She glared down at him.

"No, nothing, everything's fine," she said stiffly as she pushed her bag into the bin and took her seat.

Sherlock waited until the flight attendant seemed content with the situation and had turned away before leaning over and muttering next to her ear.

"Really, Molly, making a scene on a plane."

"Why are you _here_?" she hissed at him, yanking her e-reader and iPod from her purse before shoving it under the seat in front of her.

"You weren't in the lab."

Molly turned slowly to him, her incredulity blatant in her face.

"What?"

"You were supposed to be in the lab the last two days and you weren't."

"You… followed me onto a flight because I wasn't at work?" she scoffed, her fingers working irritably at the wire of her earbuds. "How did you even know I was on this flight – how did you even get _this seat_?"

"Have you met my brother?" he questioned dryly, flipping another page in the magazine.

"Why not just go to my flat? Email me? I dunno, _text_? All very simple solutions, Sherlock."

"Your flat is not conveniently located, my computer caught a bug and John hasn't been around to fix it, and you got into a bad habit of not answering texts when you suspected I needed you for less than authorized reasons at the lab – does that satisfy you?"

Biting the insides of her cheeks to temper her bubbling anger, she locked her eyes on her e-reader and pushed the start-up button.

"Well the second we land Mycroft can find you a ticket on the return flight," she muttered.

"That reminds me," he said calmly. "Where are we going?"

Molly thought she surely must be dreaming. There was no possible way she could suffer so much shock in just a matter of minutes.

"Let me get this straight," she ground out, pressing two fingers to the burgeoning ache in her temple. "You actually boarded a flight without the faintest idea of where it was going just so that you could nag me about not being at your beck and call?"

Sherlock looked at her as though it were the most logical explanation in the world, shrugging his shoulders slightly.

"You have lost your mind. Sodding bananas, that's what you are," Molly said, shaking her head.

"You didn't answer my question. I would like to know where I'm about to spend my time."

"Hawai'i," she told him with a purse of her lips. "We're going to Hawai'i."

* * *

By the time the plane was nearing the other side of the Atlantic, Molly thought she might risk being placed under mid-flight custody just to get away from Sherlock. She realized that in the time she had known him, she'd never spent more than a half hour with him without the distraction of an experiment or lab tests or faking his death. Without those distractions, he was starting to test her reasons for mooning over him in the first place. She'd already turned red as a tomato several times when other travelers overheard his not so discreet deductions about them. All she could do was cast apologetic glances when it became apparent they were aware he was talking about them. The worst had been the amount of adulterers he decided to point out.

"In fact, the two in front of us have only just met on this flight and, although he was flying to Los Angeles to meet his mistress, he's now contemplating abandoning her for this woman."

"You do know people can bloody hear you, yeah?"

Molly finally reached into her purse to grab the guidebook she had purchased and read thoroughly, highlighting and making notes throughout, and shoved it at him. The stare he gave her amounted to the look of a child being dismissed.

"I'm going to read and listen to music until I fall asleep," she said evenly. "You can entertain yourself."

Before he could utter a word, she popped her earbuds in and started the first chapter of her book. When she reached the end of the page and realized she had barely absorbed any of the words, her eyes skimmed back and she tried again. She made it to the third page before her mind began to wander and, as usual, settled on the topic of the man sitting next to her. Specifically, her mind replayed the words they had exchanged only a few short hours ago. Panic began to set in as she recalled that he hadn't replied in the affirmative to her suggestion that he book a return ticket as soon as they reached the States. No, in fact, he had actually seemed to imply that he was going with her… on the whole trip.

She started to wonder what exactly would happen if he didn't agree to return to England. What if he flat out refused? She couldn't force him…but she could not see spending five days on a tropical island with him either.

For one thing, what the hell would he wear?

She bit her lip at the thought of Sherlock in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, sitting on the beach drinking a Mai Tai. Her rebellious mind added the details of flip-flops and a lei and before she could hold it back she giggled. Not wanting to seem deranged, she struggled to keep her laughter under control, nearly shaking with the effort.

She felt the earbud closest to him being removed and with a great amount of effort she looked over at him without bursting into laughter.

"Why are you laughing?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes.

"Amusing book," she managed to deadpan, pulling the earbud from his fingers and resuming her previous activity.

He left her alone long enough for the music and the hum of the plane engines to lull her to sleep, her e-reader falling to her lap. The next thing she knew, she was being woken by a hand shaking her arm. She blinked blearily and tried to quickly snap to attention through the fog of her sleep. She could feel the smoothness of rich fabric beneath her cheek and she suddenly realized she had managed to fall asleep on Sherlock's shoulder. With a jump in her pulse and a flash of heat in her neck, she sat bolt upright and wiped at her face.

"Sorry," she muttered. It was amazing he had even let her sleep like that. He hated personal contact and avoided it if it could be helped at all.

"Don't apologize, you obviously needed it."

Molly looked around and gathered that they must have landed as people were slowly gathering their items, shifting around and waiting for the plane to taxi to the gate.

"Only an hour layover," Sherlock said with some disappointment. "Shame. I've never been to Los Angeles. Would've been a thrill to see what existed on a single street corner."

When they deplaned, Molly felt her stomach growl and she immediately began scanning the airport for signs of food. Asking Sherlock if he would be joining her, she was unsurprised when he declined. His reason, however, left her with her mouth hanging open.

"I should probably purchase some clothes to wear over the next few days."

"You didn't bring anything with you?" she asked, wondering how much more stunned she could sound in just one day.

"No-o," he said slowly, his brow lowering a bit as it must have dawned on him that neglecting to bring a thing with him was a mistake.

With hardly a second look at her, Sherlock turned and disappeared into the crowd. Throwing her hands up in a gesture of surrender to the universe, Molly turned and headed in the other direction, seeking out a coffee and a nice chicken sandwich.

The second leg of the flight proved to be much less frustrating than the first. She easily finished her book and no longer felt the need to block out the world with her iPod. Sherlock worked back and forth between her guidebook and a publication on rabies he had managed to find in the airport bookstore and occasionally interrupted her reading to discuss a particular aspect of the guidebook

Molly was pleasantly surprised to find out that he was fairly knowledgeable about Polynesian culture. Or rather, parts of the culture that the average tourist would not really care about, but fascinated her because Sherlock found it worthwhile to share: nautical navigation (the only time the stars proved useful, so he said), war tactics, the impact of colonialism, amongst other tidbits.

By the time they landed, boarded the small commuter plane to Kauai, and deplaned for the final time, she felt disoriented and slightly loopy from chasing the sun halfway across the globe. It was two hours past sunset, yet the heat hit them full force as they made their way to the baggage claim area. Molly ditched her jumper and Sherlock folded his blazer over his arm while they waited. The plan had been to pick up her rental car at the airport and drive straight to the cottage she had rented. When Sherlock failed to fulfill her request that he about face back onto the airplane, she admitted to herself that she was somewhat glad. He took the keys, their bags, and punched the address into the GPS, allowing her to doze off and on while he drove in the darkness.

The road took them along the shore and Molly stared sleepily out at the water illuminated by the moon, casting the figures of palms and banana trees into silhouettes along the roadside. She couldn't wait to see what it looked like in daylight. Maybe by then her mind would have calmed down and a dose of sense would have made its way into Sherlock's brain and she would be able to salvage what she had intended to be a very personal holiday.

When she glanced over at him, his eyes flicked quickly away from her and back to the road, his chin tilting down at having been caught watching her. He was probably trying to figure out why she had up and left him to run his own tests in the lab. She rolled her eyes and returned her gaze to the dark outlines passing along the roadside.

It wasn't long before they pulled into the drive of her rental, one of a dozen or so cottages dotting the shoreline in the area. Packed shells crunched underfoot as they made their way to the door and Molly brushed her hair out of her face as the wind picked up strands, blowing them across her cheek and mouth. She flipped on the light as they stepped through the door and instantly wanted to cry for happiness.

The first floor was one cozy, open space. Two plush, red sofas angled towards a huge sliding glass door on one side, looking out towards the sea. There were shelves of books and games, and island artwork dotted end tables and the walls. A tiny, but beautiful, kitchen framed the other side with a round table and chairs filling in the middle. In the corner, a winding wooden staircase descended into the kitchen from above and Molly could hardly wait to see what the loft bedroom looked like.

Mostly because she was completely knackered.

The thunk of a bag hitting the floor reminded her that she was not entirely free to escape just yet.

"Consider yourself lucky," she muttered.

"Why is that?"

"If I remember correctly, one of these sofas is a hide-a-way bed. I am too tired to help you figure out which one," she told him as she trudged towards the stairs. She pointed towards a door off the kitchen as she did so. "And there's a half bath in there. I think. Either that or a cupboard."

She got no response as she started up the stairs and took that as a good sign.

The loft space was barely large enough to hold the bed and nightstands, but it was still the most inviting sight she had seen in over twenty hours. A half wall gave her a semblance of privacy from the space below, but she still retreated to the bathroom to change into her night clothes. She lazily brushed her teeth and splashed water on her face before walking back into the bedroom. For the first time, she noticed the slatted windows covering the majority of the walls. Definitely different from anything she was used to in London. She flipped open the ones facing the water and breathed in the sweet breeze before backing up and collapsing on the cotton duvet, wriggling a bit to snuggle under it and falling into a deep sleep.


	2. Taste

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**Taste**

The first thought that made its way into Molly's mind as she slowly opened her eyes was that waking up in paradise was precisely how she thought waking up in paradise would be. There were birds singing light, cheerful melodies outside her window. She could hear the surf breaking on the beach. And somehow, she wasn't quite sure how, there was the scent of pineapple in the air.

She had no clue what time it was, as it was the first morning in a long time she had not been woken by an alarm.

Stretching in delight, she let out a small squeal and smiled as she threw back the blankets and jumped out of bed. She went immediately to the window and peered out between the open slats. The colors were overwhelming. Bright greens in the trees and grasses, the aquamarine of the water, the brilliant blue of the sky and white contrast of the clouds wafting across the horizon – it was all gorgeous. She wanted to be out there in it.

She showered quickly and applied a generous amount of sunscreen to her fair skin, then dressed in a white sundress and nearly bounded down the stairs, half expecting to find Sherlock moping on the sofa. To her surprise, the room was empty. She glanced at the sliding door and noticed that it had been left open. Making her way over, she peeked her head outside and found Sherlock sitting in a lounge on the porch, a mug of tea balanced on the armrest and a book in hand. His signature suit had been traded for tan trousers and a navy blue t-shirt, and were those… sandals?

Clearing her throat, she stepped out onto the porch. He glanced up at her, sweeping his eyes over her attire with a curiousity.

"You're wearing a dress."

"Spot on deduction."

His expression turned humorless instantly and he raised an eyebrow disinterestedly.

"Big improvement over your usual Annie Hall inspired wardrobe."

Molly pulled her lip between her teeth to keep from smiling, completely amused by his inability to be teased without having the last word.

"Gets warm early, doesn't it?" she said, changing the subject.

"How early do you think it is, exactly?" he asked her, turning a page in his book.

Molly shrugged.

"I honestly have no idea," she said with a smile.

"It's half nine."

"And let me guess – you've been up for hours?"

Sherlock lifted his tea in a salute of affirmation.

"Have you just been reading the whole time?"

"Mostly," he said. "Took the opportunity for a swim."

The thought of that had Molly feeling the heat a little more.

"I think I'll… the water, um, water sounds like a good place to be right now," she said, trailing off quickly.

She turned and headed down the stairs of the porch. The snap of his book shutting was her only clue that he had decided to follow her as she traipsed across the short expanse of grass and onto the sand.

Memories of a cold ocean the few times she had gone to the shore as a child surfaced in her mind as she approached the water. She'd never been a fan of diving into chilly water and had spent most of those trips curled on the beach under a blanket with a book.

Her feet sunk into the soft sand when she reached the spot where it remained damp from the waves and she slowed down. Molly hesitantly skirted closer to the surf, allowing the water and foam to wash over her feet. She yelped in delight and grinned, looking over her shoulder at Sherlock.

"It's _warm_!" she cried. Sherlock rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth turning up in an amused smile.

"Of course it's warm, we're in the tropics."

"No, I know, but it's just… it's fantastic!" she exclaimed, stepping forward again to let the waves curl higher on her legs.

Not only warm, but crystal clear, a quality she had noticed from her bedroom window. Up close, she could actually catch glimpses of a small school of silvery fish darting amongst the surf. She stood practically knee deep in the water for several minutes, her eyes taking in every detail of what surrounded her.

Throat clearing behind her took her out of the moment.

"Is this all you plan to do with your holiday?"

Molly looked over her shoulder and tried not to glare. She didn't feel like glaring, even at the massive downer standing behind her, while she was in such a beautiful place.

"No. At some point I was planning on leaving the water and sitting on the beach." Her mouth quirked up at his furrowed brow.

Trudging against the waves and the sand, she made her way back onto the beach and kicked away the excess water.

"I read about a nearby outdoor market that sells local products," she told him as she walked by him and towards the house, brushing her hair behind her shoulders. "If you come with me, you are _not_ allowed to deduce the people who will be providing me with food."

* * *

The market was within walking distance and Molly was happy to have the opportunity to absorb the sights on the way. The moment the market came into view, her stomach rolled with anticipation. With her job requirements, she had learned to forgo breakfast on more than one occasion. However, when she came in the presence of food, hunger was something that needed immediate attention. She could practically taste the multitudes of fresh tropical fruits, breads, and meats as they walked between the rows of sellers. Spotting a booth with half a dozen people standing around spooning what looked to be a popular breakfast into their mouths, she decided that would be a good place to start.

Not even waiting for Sherlock, she made her way through the crowd and up to the booth. Smiling at the seller, she gestured to the people around her.

"I'll take one of those," she said happily.

The seller gave her a grin and began ladling rice and what looked to be a sausage into a bowl.

"Hawaiian version of the English fry up," the seller said cheerfully as she cracked an egg over the steaming dish, allowing the heat to cook the egg before sprinkling it with a spice. "Good for you for jumping right in."

It took Molly a moment to realize that the seller knew more about breakfast in England than she knew about breakfast in Hawai'i. She had expected to stick out as a tourist, but she had forgotten that the locals probably learned more about the world from daily interactions than she ever could from a guidebook.

She thanked the woman and paid, taking the bowl and spoon just as Sherlock joined her. He scowled down at the bowl of food and shook his head when she offered it to him, but he followed dutifully as she began wandering amongst the booths of products. The heartiness of the meal filled her immediately and the spices somehow worked in the early morning heat, leaving her rejuvenated.

There was some luck in her limitations of needing to carry all her purchases back to the house as she found herself wanting to buy every item she came across. It didn't help that the vendors offered her samples of fruits and bits of baked goods at every turn. She had had tropical fruits many times before, but the experience of fresh papaya, pineapple, and coconut on her tongue was unparalleled. The sweetness, the tenderness, put her mind in a tailspin of pleasure.

There were items she had never even knew existed and there was absolutely no saying no to things like coconut syrup and macadamia nut bread. She indulged in purchases of ready to eat barbequed ribs and fresh fish, getting instructions from an enthusiastic fisherman on the best way to prepare lomi-lomi salmon for her dinner that evening. He even pointed her in the direction of the best vendors to buy the tomatoes, onion, and dried peppers.

Sherlock simply looked down at the diced raw fish and sniffed doubtfully.

"I didn't know you were such a risk taker, Molly," he said.

"What, eating the local cuisine?"

"No. Tempting food poisoning so early in your holiday."

Molly rolled her eyes and moved on.

Poi was something entirely new. Mixed reviews she'd read had left her undecided, but she was determined to try it anyway. The booth had small cups of samples with miniature wooden spoons set out and, as the vendor was busy helping buyers, Molly helped herself. Sherlock watched her carefully as she spooned a sample of the purple-grey, mashed taro root into her mouth. She let it sit on her tongue for a moment, considering the texture and the cool taste.

"Bit like applesauce," she told him as she swallowed.

To her surprise, he took the sample and the wooden spoon out of her hand and tried it for himself. He nodded his agreement of her assessment. The vendor came back from helping another customer and slid a small sampling of stringy pork to them.

"Improves the taste," she informed them. "Poi is very nutritious. Hypoallergenic." She leaned a bit towards Molly with a knowing smile. "Very good for the babies, you know, lots of vitamins and helps with the tiny tummies."

Molly practically spit out the small sample of pork and poi she had placed into her mouth, shaking her head furiously.

"Oh, no, I don't have any children," she said quickly with an embarrassed laugh.

The woman shrugged and spared a mischievous glance at Sherlock.

"Well, someday, then. You'd want those beautiful babies to be healthy," she said with a smile, turning back to preparing more poi.

Molly's heart was thudding just a tad too strongly at the suggestion that any hypothetical children she and Sherlock would have would be beautiful. Her body seemed locked, unable to turn to look at him. They were a man and woman on holiday in Hawai'i, it stood to reason that people would assume… well, that they would assume.

_If only they knew_, she thought.

Forcing her body to move, to act casual, she cleared her throat and handed over the appropriate amount for a jar of poi, trying not to blush as she did so. She still couldn't look at Sherlock as she turned around, shoving the jar into one of the totes.

"I'm ready to go," she announced.

* * *

Molly's greatest hope for her holiday had been to find the serenity in sitting in the shade of a palm tree, book in hand, with the sound of the surf in her ears and the taste of pineapple on her tongue. It was not a grand hope, certainly not full of adventure or daring, but compared to the anxious manner in which she typically went from day to day, it was an enormous change. She wanted to calm the constant fluttering of her heart, to see that a world existed beyond the concrete jungle of London that was incessantly grating on her nerves. For just a few days, she wanted to know that life could actually be pacifying and not revolve around corpses and chemical tests.

She wanted to recline on the beach and let her brain turn to pudding.

And he was letting her.

They had stopped at a convenience store on the way back from the market and she had bought a small ice chest and two bottles of wine. Sherlock had wordlessly helped her carry everything back to the house and then promptly left her alone. Given his comments at the start of the day, she had been fully preparing herself to ward off his criticism or, at the very least, to deflect a stream of complaints and boredom.

Molly glanced behind her towards the house to find Sherlock doing what he had been doing for nearly an hour – nose practically pressed into the petals of yet another tropical flower, his eye glued to a hand lens as he inspected the reproductive structures of the admittedly stunning specimens.

_Plant porn_. Molly bit back a laugh as she recalled the rather immature nickname her classmate had given the topic during their course in botany. Somehow, she couldn't imagine Sherlock indulging in anything more unsavory in terms of visual pleasure than stamen and pistil. She couldn't see him wasting his time with it.

Still, one never knew with Sherlock…

And oh what a dangerous train of thought that was.

She shook her head and tried to return her attention to her book, popping another piece of candied papaya into her mouth. The sweetness was almost too much, but she suffered happily through the treat. It was an indulgence she wouldn't normally allow herself, too aware of the sugar content. Not that she was much of a calorie counter, but she made an attempt to keep from fluctuating too much as she was prone to do. It kept the comments from a certain angiosperm-loving individual to the minimum as well.

She grimaced and banished the thought from her mind, not allowing the memories to sully the flavor of the moment.

The afternoon grew warmer and the jetlag started to settle in, pulling at her eyelids until she gave up, heading back to the house and retreating to the coolness of the bedroom for a nap.

When she woke, the sun was low and full behind the house and it took her a moment to remember that being on the east side of the island meant ocean sunrises, not sunsets. The sight that met her when she descended to the kitchen should not have surprised her, given Sherlock's obsessive activity in the afternoon. Every surface available was covered with heavy books from the house, sandwiching newspaper and printing paper that he had managed to accrue. She would have known what was going on without witnessing him setting a bright orange hibiscus flower carefully between another layer of book, newspaper, and white paper on the coffee table.

"Pressing plants?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Would have been better with acid free paper. Sadly, the nearest store was woefully under stocked in that area," he replied with a frown.

Molly bit her lip as she smiled, pleased that he seemed to be enjoying himself and, more importantly, was staying out of her hair.

Out of necessity, she relocated a few of the sets of books from the kitchen counter in order to begin preparing dinner, careful not to disturb his work. She threw the small batch of premade barbequed ribs into the oven (she'd been unable to pass up the easy preparation for the item) and set about chopping tomatoes and mixing spices for the salmon. One simple Caesar salad later and she had one of the most appealing dinners she'd prepared in a long time sitting on the table. It certainly beat the reheated bins of questionable meat in Bart's canteen. She poured herself a generous glass of white wine and nabbed a plate from the cupboard. She stared at the single plate for a moment, considering, before reaching up and pulling a second down.

It was a bit like setting food out and waiting for wildlife. Quietly tucking into her meal, she tried not to make any sudden movements when Sherlock began to hover near the table, turning a discerning eye on her cooking results.

Though he flat out refused to try the lomi-lomi, Molly was pleased that he at least helped himself to a few of the ribs - until he set about eating them with a fork and knife, explaining that he was not about to start behaving like a Viking. After that comment, she felt obligated to follow suit for fear of suffering from his disapproval of her table manners.

He actually complimented her cooking, taking the opportunity to complain that John was far too fond of vegetarian pasta dishes and never left anything in the way of red meat for Sherlock to pick at in the takeaway boxes. Molly smiled, suggesting that he could always take the initiative to order his own food and was met with an offended scoff.

It was all going rather well when she glanced up and noticed the stray bit of sauce on the side of his mouth. Without even thinking, she reached out and deftly swiped her finger across his skin, only realizing her actions when her thumb lingered just a moment too long at the edge of his lip. Her smile vanished and Sherlock froze, save for his eyes which darted over to meet hers, completely unreadable. Molly jerked her hand back, quickly wiping her fingers on her napkin.

"Sorry, you had a bit… a bit of sauce just there," she mumbled, pointing to the corner of her own mouth.

God, she wanted the earth to swallow her up and rescue her from her own awkwardness. For several horrible seconds, there was dead silence, and then…

"Thank you."

It was only slightly less robotic than the first time she had managed to elicit a thank you from him. She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear and locked her eyes on a small crack in the table, fidgeting with her fork.

"You're welcome," she mumbled.

The rest of the meal was spent in relative silence. Molly sneaked a few glances at him, thinking she could ease off on her own self-criticism as he didn't seem particularly annoyed. He looked rather confused, actually.

The moment Sherlock was done eating, he returned to the waiting plant cuttings with an air of one-track-mind concentration, leaving the dishes for her.

_Of course_, she thought, feeling a pang of sympathy for John Watson and his super-human patience for being Sherlock's flat mate.


	3. Sight

For the first time since her arrival on the island, Molly felt like crying and was furious with herself for spending even one moment stripped from the waste up, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. It had started as an innocent inspection of the incision mark, checking to see how it was healing. The longer she stared at the angry red mark, barely half an inch in length, the more her mind started twisting around with defeated thoughts. She sniffed quietly and glared at the way her eyes welled up with tears despite her best efforts to remain in control. There was no room for this nonsense, not on a day when she had planned so much to experience. She did not need to be her own black raincloud on a day that was supposed to be exciting.

Grabbing the blue bikini top from the bathroom counter, Molly strapped it around her body and roughly set the hooks in place as she wandered back into the bedroom.

She spent nearly ten minutes standing in front of the mirror in her room, waffling between swallowing her pride and wearing just the bikini top or opting for the surf shirt she had purchased. She turned to the side for the tenth time and looked at the edge of her breast peeking out from beneath the swimsuit. Lifting her arm, she twisted this way and that to see how much of the scar would be visible. If she were alone she wouldn't have given a flying fuck about the incision showing. With Sherlock along to notice every tiny detail in her life, she was feeling much more self-conscious.

Finally deciding that she had not flown all this way to wind up with a t-shirt tan, she left the surf shirt sitting on the bed and threw on a light, short-sleeved blouse over her bikini top and tugged on a pair of shorts.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted her as she came downstairs, the scent wonderfully inviting. There was something to be said for having Sherlock along after all.

The thought dimmed a bit as she caught sight of him splayed face down on the sofa, his hand draped lazily on the floor.

"Run out of books?" she asked innocently, noting that all that remained on the shelves were paperbacks. She reached for the macadamia nut bread on the kitchen counter, intending to smother a slice in coconut syrup for breakfast, while Sherlock let out a frustrated grumble.

"No," he drawled. "Plants. Apparently, it isn't acceptable to venture onto other properties in search of interesting specimens."

"Well," Molly started, popping the slice of bread into the toaster. "I have a few activities planned for the day. If you wanted… that is, if you're bored, you could come with me?"

"Is that a question?"

"Invitation," she said quickly, trying to be more self-assured.

"Does it involve souvenir shops?" he asked after a moment's silence.

"No."

"Guided tours?"

"No."

"Themed restaurants?"

"Not if I can help it."

Sherlock heaved out a sigh and pushed himself up from the sofa.

"Fine," he muttered.

* * *

"It should be just up here," Molly said, directing Sherlock as he drove, guidebook and map spread out over her lap.

He drove them towards a turn-off that led to a nearly full car park at the edge of a white sand beach. A few dozen people were already making use of the area, setting up blankets and picnic baskets or prepping surf boards and fishing gear for a day in the water. Huge umbrellas dotted the beach, although the sky was mostly filled with puffy clouds only intermittently letting the sun through. They parked and exited the car, both grabbing items from the backseat that would sustain them through the morning. Sherlock took one look at where they were, the equipment rental shack at the edge of the car park, and rolled his eyes.

"Dull," he muttered.

"Sorry?" she said, staring over the top of the car at him. "How is snorkeling dull?"

"Not in and of itself," he began, piling a beach towel and a text on volcanoes on the roof. "You, however, have picked an obvious tourist trap. Twenty American dollars to rent subpar equipment, the start of what is sure to be a large crowd that will scare off any aquatic species worth looking at, and you have yourself a wasted expenditure. And all for what? To say you saw a cute little fish bobbing about in the ocean?"

"Yes," she replied firmly.

He blinked at her, clearly not expecting that answer.

"What's the point?"

"Sometimes life is about experiencing something new, Sherlock, whether it's exciting or mediocre," she told him, draping her towel over her arm and looking at him thoughtfully. "It's like… it's like when you find some new, minute detail in a case that no one else cares about, but you… you light up - "

"I do not 'light up.'"

"Like a Christmas tree, you should see yourself," Molly said with a smirk. "The point is, it's like that, except it's not about solving a crime. It's just… life. And I'd like to experience it before I… while I have the opportunity."

Her tongue had almost run away from her, so close to saying 'before I can't.' It felt ridiculous to start thinking in those terms already, not even knowing what her fate was yet, but it was a looming thought that she could not ignore. She gave him a half-hearted smile and started towards the rental booth.

She was a bit disappointed that he did not agree to go with her, opting to stay in the shade of the trees and find distraction in his book. Although, she was glad that his position put quite a bit of distance between them when she shimmied out of her shirt and shorts, leaving her feeling only slightly less self-conscious. The surf was safe, there were at least a dozen other people in the water, and somehow she knew he would be keeping an eye on her from the beach, but she still felt a bit exposed treading out into the waves on her own. As the water reached her waist, she got a bit mad at herself for feeling that she needed him with her. Hadn't she planned for this to be a solitary holiday in the first place? She was thirty-four years old, for God's sake, she was perfectly capable of adventuring on her own.

She nodded firmly to herself at her renewed pluck and pulled the mask into place. The mouthpiece tasted horribly of salt water, but it was forgotten the moment she plunged into the water and propelled herself out.

He was half right about the small crowd of people in the water. The fish skittered away at the smallest sign that they were being watched, but good lord, they were beautiful. All bright colors and stripes and spots and elegant angles. With her head submerged in the water, the din from the beach crowd disappeared and it was another world, peaceful and easy. She lost track of the time she spent suspended, watching with fascination.

The beach was even more occupied when she eventually emerged from the surf feeling waterlogged and content. Her attention drifted to a rock outcropping as she sat at the water line tugging the flippers off of her feet. A group of teenagers were taking turns leaping off of the rocks into the water below, shrieking in delight with each jump.

She stopped everything and just watched them, completely transfixed. There had been a time when she would have considered joining them, bending to the reckless assumption in youth that something as simple as jumping into the ocean was more fun than dangerous. Feeling the pulse of life and the adrenaline surge of free-falling rather than the knowledge that one misplaced jump could mean a broken leg or neck. Too much time in the morgue left her with a far too realistic view of the threats that lay waiting in life. She hugged her knees to her chest and knew it was beyond her to climb up there with them. Sensible as always.

Even if she did want to feel her heart thunder in her ears and the rush of air before hitting the ocean's surface.

After wrapping her towel around her waist, she gathered her things and went to return the equipment before dashing to the public toilets to slip back into her clothes. She jumped when she walked back outside and nearly ran into Sherlock.

"Good, you're done," he said, turning to lead them back to the car. "And don't even think about buying anything from the souvenir booth over there, they're set up for credit card fraud."

Molly sighed and followed, not bothering to inform him that she had no desire to purchase what looked to be tacky hula dancers in plastic snow globes.

She opened the door to the passenger side and slid in, letting her door slam a little more forcefully than was necessary.

"What prosaic activity do you have planned next?" he asked as he settled into the driver's seat.

Molly felt something snap inside her.

"You know, no one asked you to be here."

"I hardly wait for invitations before choosing to go somewhere and who else would have asked me besides you, exactly?"

"No, that's not… I mean that _I_ did not ask you to be here."

"Yes…and?"

"And? Sherlock, this is _my_ holiday. Not yours. And I have things that I want to do. Things that don't need your scrutiny. If you insist on staying and ruining my holiday, at least keep your opinions to yourself for once."

The way his eyelids fluttered briefly, his eyes cast down, completely rebuked by her words, filled her equally with guilt and annoyance. She hated losing her temper with him, hated having to whack him across the head with the obvious stick when he really should know better. He insisted on pushing her buttons, though. And no amount of admonishing looks from him was going to ease the fact that he couldn't refrain from being a pain in the arse in the first place.

Molly reached for the glove compartment and pulled out her guidebook, opening it to her trusty map.

"I want to go to Wailua Falls," she said firmly. "It's not far from here."

Sherlock wordlessly started the engine and put the car in reverse, maneuvering them towards the road.

"Tell me where to go," he said quietly.

Her clipped directions were the only words spoken as they drove, the scenery around them growing progressively more lush and tropical as they moved inland. After a while, there was simply silence as signs began appearing for the falls and Molly no longer felt the need to direct. Instead, she took in the island flora and the amazing sight of dirt the color of red brick. The contrast with the sage color of the grasses and trees was beautiful. She wondered how everything wasn't constantly covered in a red film of dust.

Sherlock pulled the car amongst others parked along the road when they reached their destination. It was a popular spot and Molly was glad she had opted to change into trainers when they made the ten minute walk to the overlook.

Her agitation from earlier melted away when the view of the falls appeared before her. It was one of the reasons she had wanted to make the journey – to see something she had only read about in books or seen in pictures. There was something almost unrealistic about it, as though a natural wonder this lovely couldn't exist in real life. The water careening over the edge of the rocks and into the idyllic pool below was hypnotizing, the sound almost soothing.

She leaned against the metal railings, warm against her skin, and peered down. Momentary vertigo swept over her as she realized just how high they were. It made her palms slightly sweaty. That was always the thrill of places like these, though – the risk one took in order to catch a glimpse of something amazing, only a stone wall and a railing separating safety from mortality.

Molly glanced at Sherlock standing beside her and it suddenly occurred to her that he knew what it was like to step over that barrier.

For the first time, she found herself curious about what he must have felt as he faced the possibility of death. She'd been so scared that day, so worried that his plan would go awry and she would lose him forever. She became wrapped up in her own feelings (and John's and everyone else close to him) and had never really stopped to think about what must have been going through his head. Had he been afraid? What was it like?

"What was what like?"

Molly started as she realized she must have mumbled that last bit out loud.

"N-nothing," she stammered. "S'not important."

Sherlock sighed heavily.

"If you want to ask me about The Fall, just ask, Molly," he said roughly. "God knows everyone else has. What curiosities remain that you were not privy to before? Did I really know I was going to have to jump? How did I time it? Did it hurt? What do you want to know?"

She almost backed down at his impatient tone, knowing how much he had been hounded in the aftermath of everything, having to explain himself over and over. But she had never heard him answer the question that was in her mind.

"What was it like knowing you might die? That you might have to leave everything and everyone you love behind?"

He stared at her, suddenly still. She looked down at her hands, clasped over the railing.

"You don't… you don't have to answer that. Stupid question," she mumbled. "Really…stupid."

She felt like an idiot, trying to find layers that in all likelihood did not exist. The fear nagging her mind left her reaching out for answers, for comfort. It wasn't his fault he had no idea what she was talking about or why she was asking him tedious questions about something he would probably rather forget.

She felt him shift beside her, moving close enough that his arm brushed hers briefly.

"Terrifying," he said, his voice lowered to an intimate pitch. "Even though we had it planned to perfection. In a way, it was the easiest thing in the world to step off that roof – to save the lives I knew were threatened. But…things could have gone wrong. And that is the detail that separated Moriarty from me. He found life trivial and simple to walk away from. After many years on that path…I now consider it worth living."

Molly did not fully realize she had turned to stare at him until he ceased speaking, her eyes glued to his as he gazed out over the expanse of forest in front of them. She was speechless and somewhat mesmerized by the vulnerability that had crept into his features as he spoke. Clearing his throat, Sherlock glanced over at her.

"If you breathe a word of that to anyone, especially John, you will be delivering body parts to me daily," he threatened mildly. "I have a reputation to protect."

Molly smiled and made a show of miming locking her lips shut.

"Have you had enough adventuring for one day, Molly Hooper?" he inquired, pulling his sunglasses from the neck of his shirt and donning them as he turned to face away from the falls.

"I do believe so," she replied, following his lead as he began walking towards the trail.

The fluffy, grey and white clouds that had been billowing overhead in patches all day began to coalesce as they made the trek back to the car. Halfway to the road, the clouds broke open and rain drenched them in seconds. Molly's first instinct was to bolt for the cover of the car, expecting the cold rain she was used to in London. She realized quickly that between the heat and the mild humidity of the day, the rain hardly made one bit of difference. Looking around, everyone else in the vicinity seemed to be taking it in stride, so she decided to do the same. There was a bit of a hurry in their step as they reached the car, Molly quickly tossing the extra towel to Sherlock to cover his seat so as not to soak it.

"Well that was different," she laughed as she wrung her hair out over the edge of the car before pulling the door shut. "Who knew downpours could be pleasant?"

When she turned to face Sherlock, he was tugging his t-shirt over his head, depositing it haphazardly on the floor of the backseat.

"Wet clothes in humidity never dry," he muttered.

Molly bit her lip.

She'd had plenty of moments admiring Sherlock over the years. Though she wouldn't admit it to a soul, she'd done her fair share of fantasizing as well. It was always very wistful. Something new thudded in her chest as she looked at him sitting across from her, shirtless, his hair tousled and curling magnificently with the humidity, and, miracle of miracles, his skin lightly sun kissed. It was the first time she felt genuine lust for him. Like she could have thoroughly debauched him right there in the car.

Catching his eye, she was horrified to realize something must have shown on her face. He was staring at her with a bit of concern, his eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"What? Nothing. I didn't… ahm, nothing," she spat out ineloquently, her eyes snapping forward to look at the road.

She could feel him continuing to look at her, though he started the car and set them on the road just a few moments later.

* * *

Sherlock expressed far more enthusiasm for the red snapper in a simple white sauce that Molly prepared for dinner, going so far as to ask for seconds to finish with his wine. She beamed inwardly at the small accomplishment of interesting Sherlock Holmes in food. With his attention directed toward a copy of the local paper that had been delivered to the house, she spent most of the dinner trying not to let her eyes wander over his torso, all too familiar now with what lay below his shirt. She made a very conscious decision to cut herself off at one glass of wine lest she decide to let the alcohol guide her to some humiliating choices.

When they were done, Molly gathered the plates to the sink while Sherlock corked the bottle and popped it in the fridge. She had only just begun to soap the plates and cooking pan when he ushered her to the side and took over washing, allowing her the chance to place the remaining food in the fridge.

"Am I truly ruining your holiday?" he asked suddenly.

Her back was to him, but she could clearly hear the uncertainty in his voice. Gently closing the door to the fridge, she ran her finger along the handle thoughtfully, feeling the return of butterflies she had not experienced in some time.

"Not at the moment, no," she said with a small smile.

When he made no reply, Molly turned and headed into the sitting area, pulling her reader with her as she settled onto the sofa. Stretching her legs out on the cushions, she inhaled deeply and enjoyed the feeling of the warm breeze coming through the open door. Her eyes traveled back and forth between the words in her book and the dimming light outside, watching the colors of the ocean shift as the sun disappeared and stars began dotting the horizon. What had been clear and turquoise became opaque and steely, though still inviting. The wind had cleared the skies of most of the clouds from the day and the few wisps of clouds that streaked across the sky turned baby pink, the green of the trees becoming rich and dark as the light waned.

The water in the sink stopped running and Molly heard the last plate settle in the drying rack. Focusing her eyes on the book, she was peripherally aware of Sherlock moving into the sitting area, leaning down to pick his book up from the coffee table. Rather than claiming the other sofa, he reached down and lifted her feet up, settling at the end of her sofa before resting her feet atop his leg. She glanced up and watched him lean casually into the cushions, his right arm placed along the back of the couch and his left leg bent, foot resting on the coffee table, book propped on his thigh.

It was mostly pretense after that as she stared unseeing at the pages in front of her. Minutes later, the arm resting on the couch slid down, his warm hand placed firmly over the arch of her foot. There was something decidedly possessive about the way his fingers curled against her skin.

Molly thought her heart might bust right through her chest.

Forcing calm into her limbs, she managed to find comprehension in the words on the page again. She read long past the point of exhaustion, not wanting the moment to end.


	4. Sound

The next morning dawned bright and clear, seeming to want to make up for the mess of weather and corresponding emotions from the day before. The air was crisp and pleasant, blowing lightly through the windows and cooling the house. Molly had packed up a few sandwiches for lunch in the ice chest to bring in the car and by late morning they were on the road again into town to one of the fancier hotels in the area.

"I still don't see why you want to do this," Sherlock said as he drove.

"Because I've never taken a dance class in my life and this seemed like as good a time as any."

"That's just my point – it's a very public setting."

"Just because you're too ashamed to show you have two left feet doesn't mean I am."

His brow shot down at her words.

"I do not have two left feet," he said defensively. "I happen to be a rather good dancer."

"Hm." Molly smirked, staring straight ahead. "You'll have to prove that to me sometime."

She caught the way his eyes flicked toward her, trying to determine if she was serious or not.

When they reached the hotel, Molly quickly found the meeting place for the hula class. The fee included the simple outfit of a blue skirt and white top which she and the other students changed into before starting the class. They gathered on the lawn at the back of the hotel overlooking the water and Sherlock sat himself in a lounge chair nearby.

The first fifteen minutes were spent going over the meaning behind the dress, the movements of the hands and feet, the relationship between the musicians and the dancers. She was surprised to learn that the dancers controlled the music, calling out cues for the drummers and singers to follow and guiding the dance.

They learned a short, simple hula and when the instructor felt the group had a good grasp of it, the musicians joined in. Before she knew it, Molly was swaying with the lively sound of drums and steel guitar, her hands following the graceful patterns of the instructor as they drifted through the air and told a story in a manner that had been passed down for generations. It was easy to feel inspired and lifted by the moment with the ocean spread out in front of them and the breeze ruffling through the palm leaves above them and for one glorious moment Molly forgot why she was there. A smile broke out on her face and her heart felt light for the first time in what seemed like years.

"One more time, you all look gorgeous!" the instructor called out, cuing the musicians to continue the song.

They started the dance again and as Molly let the music and movement guide her, her eyes landed on Sherlock. He was watching her intently, his gaze never wavering. Her smile widened and she was rewarded with a rare smile from him in return, just turning the corner of his mouth up.

It all came to an end far too soon, the drums reverberating with a final thrum and the class clapping their appreciation for the lesson.

She almost felt light headed as she wandered across the grass and rejoined Sherlock, unable to help the little flounce in her step. He chuckled as she picked up her things, placing a guiding hand on the small of her back as they walked to the car.

"I get to keep the outfit," she said happily, not caring that she sounded like a giddy seven year old.

"I assumed you hadn't suddenly taken to thievery," he replied.

Molly snacked on a sandwich during the ride back, popping a cold soda to go with it, more than content. She retreated to the bedroom soon after arriving back at the house, turning on the ceiling fan and slipping into an oversized sleep shirt before falling into bed for a nap. She felt a bit guilty for dozing her way through the middle of the holiday, but her activities combined with the time change left her ready to catch up on sleep.

Upon waking late in the afternoon, she pinned her hair on top of her head and decided to refresh herself with a short bath. Afterwards, she slipped into a lavender sundress and put the slightest hint of makeup on. Combing through her hair with her fingers, she contemplated her appearance for a moment before pulling her fingers through her hair one more time and shifting the weight of it to one side, allowing the part to settle off center. She smiled at the effect and headed downstairs.

Sherlock popped up from his place on the couch the moment she appeared and walked towards the door.

"According to your guidebook, there's a well-received restaurant nearby," he said as he plucked the keys from their hook on the wall. "You've done enough cooking."

He was out the door before she had a chance to reply. Molly scrambled to slip on her shoes and grab her purse, thinking that if this was how Sherlock invited a girl to dinner it was no wonder none of them had ever seen him in a relationship.

The restaurant was a nice change of pace, even if it was slightly kitschy. Sherlock had yet to complain about the décor, so she assumed it did not fall into his categorization of "themed." It helped that they had been seated on the patio with a lovely view of the ocean, fairy lights and tiki torches illuminating the area. Near the building, a man and woman provided live music, strumming a ukulele and softly beating out a rhythm on a drum as they sang in harmony.

A waiter came and took their order, returning quickly with her strawberry daiquiri and Sherlock's tumbler of scotch on the rocks. Then the poor boy made the mistake of asking Sherlock if he would like him to take a picture of him with his beautiful girlfriend. Molly hid her face in her hand as Sherlock turned a withering gaze on the waiter.

"She's not my girlfriend," he said condescendingly.

"Oh…uh, sorry," the waiter stammered.

"It's okay, easy mistake to make," Molly said quickly, dropping her hand. "Thank you for the drinks."

The waiter seemed greatly relieved and backed away from the table to escape to the main part of the restaurant. Molly reached for the straw in her drink and twirled it around, mixing the blended concoction as she looked at Sherlock.

"You know, you needn't sound quite so disgusted at the - very reasonable, I might add - suggestion that I'm your girlfriend," she accused.

"Why is it reasonable? Can't two people have dinner without it being construed as a date? Why the automatic assumption of romance?" he asked, letting the last word slide out with a tone of disdain.

"Not on a Hawaiian island, apparently," she mumbled, taking a long sip of her drink.

"The term 'girlfriend' is one to be disgusted by, Molly," he barreled on. "If we were romantically attached, I would neither define you as a girl nor simply as a friend. Frankly, it's a bit juvenile and insulting to a woman of your…importance."

Molly stared at him for a moment before swallowing and looking down.

"For the record," she started hesitantly. "If this were a date…i-it would be the nicest one I've had in a long time."

There was a long silence while they both sipped at their drinks and Molly ran her dinner knife through the tiny bowl of butter to spread on a dinner roll. She did a double take as she looked down at the bread. A dinner roll which was…purple.

"It's the poi," Sherlock said.

"What?" Molly looked up at him.

"They make it with poi. Gives it the color."

"Oh. How did you -"

"It's the staple food of the culture, it's got purple hues, it only makes sense they would incorporate it into western influences."

"Right," she said, feeling silly for not seeing the connection as easily as he did.

She went back to snacking on the bread and sipping at the daiquiri, watching people strolling along the beach. Sherlock methodically rotated his glass on the table, seeming to stare at nothing.

"Why Moriarty?"

Molly practically choked on her drink.

"Sorry, what?" she gasped.

"I'm assuming he was one of your last decent dates, though it couldn't have fulfilled your wildest expectations. He didn't exactly seem like your type. What interested you?"

Her mouth hung open inelegantly as she struggled to form a reply.

"I don't want to tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because it's bloody embarrassing!"

"Molly," he coaxed, his voice the low murmur he usually reserved for when he needed a favor.

She hated the instant spine tingle she got from his tone, as though he knew exactly which timbre to use to set her off. She knew she wasn't drunk. She was quite in control of herself, thank you very much, as she'd only had the one drink. But she felt the alcohol loosen her reservations and she'd honestly never been able to talk to _anyone_ about what had happened before. Her girlfriends remained ignorant of the real identity of 'Jim from IT.'

"When I mentioned you… he was interested," she said ruefully. "Meena and Caroline and all the others were well over it whenever I tried to talk to them about you. They couldn't care less. Jim was attentive. He was sweet. He was…"

"Not me," Sherlock interpreted.

Molly bit her lip, thinking how obvious it must have been to him that she fancied him. More than fancied, but perhaps he had never caught on to the depths of her emotions. She could only think that he must have been somewhat relieved to see her move on to someone else. Too bad for all of them that she had inadvertently introduced him to his greatest adversary. The guilt upon realizing what she had done ate at her for a long time.

But he was right. In the moment, Jim was a breath of fresh air.

"It was sort of nice," she admitted with a small shrug. God, was she really having this conversation with him? It didn't seem real.

He looked on the verge of replying when their waiter came back with the entrees. Hawaiian style fish and chips for Sherlock, seared ahi tuna for her. The conversation dropped for a while as they tucked in.

Feeling that, for once, he could possibly be in a sharing mood and she might be able to actually get him to answer a question about his life, Molly summoned her courage between bites of fish and cleared her throat.

"So…so can I ask you something?"

"You have the ability, yes."

"No, you know that's not…" Molly shook her head, unsure if he was joking or not. "I just – well, you asked me about Jim, so I figure I get to ask you something now."

"Is that how it works?" Sherlock said, turning a narrowed gaze on her. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and raised her shoulders in expectation. He sighed in mild annoyance. "Go ahead."

Her heart beat picked up a bit and she took a small breath.

"Did you sleep with that woman?"

"Which woman?"

"The woman… the one from the morgue."

There was a long silence.

She knew the woman's name well enough, had read it with a shameful sense of voyeurism while raptly following those entries in John's blog. More time than was decent was spent trying to read between the lines as he detailed Sherlock's reaction to the events, as the man himself let nothing slip. He had been decidedly unresponsive during that whole period when it came to the mysterious woman who disappeared and reappeared in their lives. The one piece of information she had been gifted with was his whereabouts in Pakistan and the reason for it. Someone had to cover for him, after all. Reliable Molly, there to help, as always.

"I did have sex with her, yes," he said without emotion.

Molly tried not to let her expression drop as she let the information sink in.

"When you rescued her?" she asked timidly.

"Yes," he replied.

"Why?"

He shrugged.

"Timing was right. Got it out of my system and that was that." He took a long drink from his glass and looked at her. "Does that upset you?"

The obvious answer came roaring to the front of her mind, though she refused to allow it to pass her lips for fear of seeming like a jealous school girl. It shouldn't have upset her as she'd made a resolute vow after that Christmas to let go of the romantic notion of being with Sherlock. She laid no claim to him and therefore had no ground to stand on when it came to chastising his behavior. Setting her expression to indifference, she took a sip from her own drink.

"You're a grown adult and unattached. You're entitled to make whatever choices you want," she said, overly casual.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"Deflection is not your strong suit, Molly," he informed her.

Feeling her defenses go up, her eyes flashed to his and she felt her shoulders round, both hands laced around her drink. He took in her body language and for once backed off.

They sat in tense silence for a while, the din of conversation from other tables competing with the strains of music from the live entertainment. Molly became so absorbed in the noise that she barely heard the most unexpected question from Sherlock.

"Did you sleep with Moriarty?"

She blinked up at him to make sure she had heard him correctly. He was looking at her expectantly, not unlike the looks he gave her when waiting on a particularly important result in the lab.

"Came very close," she told him, reflecting on the night of their third date, after the pub and tearing after him at Bart's to confront him about the phone number. "That was the night I decided to break it off. He was getting a bit… rough. At the time I thought he was trying to compensate for what you had said about him. Turns out, asking the madman you're going out with if he's gay does not do wonders for the relationship. As you so cleverly pointed out, my chucking him apparently set off the crime spree of the century."

Sherlock stared at her, completely ignoring her little attempt at humor.

"Did he hurt you?"

There was a roughness in his voice that left her fairly certain Moriarty would have been in a world of hurt were he still alive, adding harming her to his list of offenses against Sherlock's friends. She may have been a minor player in all that drama, an afterthought that was brushed aside when Jim was done with her, but knowing that Sherlock would have defended her was the proverbial silver lining if there was any to be found.

She shook her head.

"Good," he said, shifting his gaze from her to the horizon beyond the patio.

He was quiet after that and the remainder of the dinner was spent in a not altogether uncomfortable silence. Molly allowed her attention to be pulled by the music, though her mind was busy replaying their conversation, trying to interpret the way he sounded when he thought she had suffered at the hands of Moriarty – angry? Regretful? Perhaps a combination.

When the bill came, he hurried his card into the check holder before she could even register what had happened, then returned his focus to the ocean, looking lost to his thoughts.

Molly puttered around the house when they got back from dinner, opening windows to let in the night air and straightening out the kitchen before deciding to retire to the bedroom for the night. Sherlock stood at the open porch door, leaning against the doorframe with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The breeze gently lifted his dark locks away from his face as he stood staring into the night.

"'Night, Sherlock," she said gently from the edge of the stairs, turning away from him.

"I'm sorry he picked you."

It was said in a hurry, as though he suddenly had a revelation about how to articulate the thoughts in his head. She turned slightly, leaning on the banister.

"S'okay," she said. "I mean, no, it's not really 'okay.' But it's fine. It's not like I was in love with him or anything."

"You didn't deserve it," he said, his voice just shy of a rumble. "He was cruel."

"Yes," Molly agreed quietly, unsure of how else to respond.

She waited in thick silence for several moments, trying to decipher if the exchange was over and slightly stunned at his sudden protectiveness. Just as she was shifting her weight to continue up the stairs, he spoke again.

"You deserve far better than any of that, Molly Hooper."

There was no explanation as to the extent of his statement and she was left wondering what 'any of that' meant, exactly. As she watched him wander outside, she realized the subject was likely closed for the time being and continued upstairs. It wasn't until she had prepared for bed and walked over to the window to adjust the slats that she noticed him on the beach, sitting with his legs tucked up, arms folded around his knees. She considered going outside to try to coax him back into the house, knowing he could very well sit out there all night until the sun rose over the water and she would just worry about his safety. It felt like a full time job, worrying about Sherlock. She saw him reach up with his hands, ruffling his hair before dragging his hands over his face and standing up to return to the house. It was a mannerism she was highly familiar with. It hit her suddenly that, for the first time, Sherlock Holmes might be worried about her.


	5. Scent

Molly had purposefully left the last two days of her holiday open, not wanting to fill her schedule with rigid plans and activities. The house was empty when she wandered downstairs in her pyjamas and for a heart stopping moment she flashed back to the morning after he jumped from Bart's, every sign of his presence in her flat vanished with no idea of when or if she would see him again. It took a moment of deep breathing to reason with herself that he would not disappear on her during her holiday.

She laughed ruefully at her own behavior: spending three days wishing he wasn't there and then panicking at the first hint he might actually leave.

She chose to take a cue from him and went for a morning swim before showering and preparing a quick breakfast of fruit and toast. When she caught a glance of herself in the bathroom mirror, dressed lightly in a pink camisole and cotton shorts, she was slightly taken aback by how much color she had acquired over a few short days. Pushing a finger to her shoulder, she watched the skin go white for a second before turning peachy again.

_At least I'm not burned_, she thought. _Miraculously_.

She was fairly certain she would forever smell of sunscreen and coconut, though.

He was back by the time she finished her breakfast, walking in with an armful of papers just as she was headed out the back door.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Crime reports for the islands," he said as walked towards her, indicating that she should continue on outside, following right behind.

"What?" she said in surprise, looking over her shoulder at him as she walked down the steps.

"Thought it might be interesting to test the competency of the local police."

Molly stared skeptically at the papers as he rifled through them.

"I really don't want to know how you got ahold of those," she said with a shake of her head.

"No, you really don't," Sherlock agreed, narrowing his focus to the reports.

The better part of the day was spent idling on the beach or, when the afternoon grew too warm, on the lounge under the eaves of the porch. Molly read or sometimes just stared at her surroundings, trying to memorize every hue of color and every detail. He would interrupt her from time to time, often leaping into a diatribe about some idiocy in an investigation he was reading about or asking her opinion on evidence presented. There were a few cases he was positive he had solved or even come to a different conclusion than the official report and was nearly ready to march right to the police. She begged him not to, pointing out that the last thing she wanted to do on her holiday was bail him from jail because he pissed off the local police.

She kept dinner simple in the evening, easily whipping out homemade macaroni and a side of vegetables.

After they ate, he promptly chucked her out of the kitchen and told her to go relax on the porch while he took care of the cleanup. She stared at him long enough for him to turn an annoyed gaze on her.

"What?" he demanded.

"Have you been drugged? You've cleaned up after two suppers now."

"Is it so impossible to believe that I can do something nice?" When she gave him a doubtful look and opened her mouth to reply, he waved a dismissive hand at her. "Don't answer. Go, leave, go outside."

Four days in and she was still not accustomed to the aromas that wafted continuously on the island. The heady scent of plumeria and hibiscus was continually delightful and surprising. Mixed with what could only be described as a spicy ocean breeze, she felt as though the whole island was carefully scented to appease the mind.

The perfume was especially strong as she sat on the patio of the house, surrounded by the botanical beauty of native plants. Something about the exposure to tropical cocktails piqued the interest of the chemist in Sherlock and he had voluntarily set about mixing liquor and fruit juice after he finished cleaning up. Not one to let an opportunity pass to appear superior, he pointed out that his proportions and combinations were correct for optimum enjoyment. Molly was just glad he was doing the work in the kitchen for once.

It was still a bit strange to see the sun set over the land and the darkness of night creeping in from the horizon of the ocean, but the sight was still beautiful.

She took a sip of whatever concoction Sherlock had created after he handed it over, settling on the lounge next to her, and had to admit that he had a reason to boast – the man was good with cocktails. The moment was so serene, so blessedly normal, that she felt like pinching herself to make sure it was real. His casual attire of jeans and a fitted grey t-shirt alone were enough to question reality. Sitting amicably on the porch with him, close enough to catch whiffs of his spicy cologne, having drinks?

_Something out of my wildest dreams_, she thought as she looked down into her glass.

"Which test did you undergo?" he asked suddenly.

Her head snapped up, heart jumping and heat spreading into her face at the shattering realization that her secret was lost. She was amazed it had taken him this long to reveal that he knew exactly what had been wrong. For a moment, she considered lying, but she knew it was useless. And for once, there was an openness in his expression that gave her the feeling he would not be malicious with her answer.

"You were in pain when you picked up a moderate stack of papers. It was either your arm or your chest," he prodded. "Which was it?"

"Che - " she started, the word catching in her throat. She cleared it carefully before continuing. "Chest. Um, it was a minimally invasive breast biopsy."

When he only stared at her, his eyes piercing and his brow lowered, she got nervous all at once and ran a hand along her collarbone.

"Minimally invasive is a terrible misnomer, by the way," she said with timid laugh. "I was in agony for three days and I looked like a battered peach. And that was with the prescriptions."

"And your first thought was 'Why not go on holiday?'"

A knot formed in her stomach and she contemplated if his sudden kindness would survive her personal reasons.

"When my dad was diagnosed, he got very sick very quickly," she started quietly. "He spent his whole life on a teacher's salary – enough to keep our family comfortable, but never enough to let him experience the world in the way he wanted to, wanted all of us to. He always talked about seeing the pyramids, visiting an ashram, snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef. Truth is, he never left England. Never got the chance. I watched my dad fade away and my aunt suffer through two years of chemo and surgeries before leaving us with more regrets than I can tell you, Sherlock. And I swore that if it was ever me, I would not sit quietly. But you know me… I get scared. I don't know the results yet. And I knew that if I didn't do this now, if I didn't start _now_, before I even knew, I might not ever…"

She drifted off and wiped away the tear that had escaped from her eye, setting her drink down on the porch.

"You find out soon," he stated.

"Tomorrow, most likely," she said with a nod.

"It's an early diagnoses," he told her with an air of objectivity. "No reason to think with such fatalism."

The shrug she gave him conveyed her doubts. He studied her for a moment, working to see past the wall she was trying to maintain.

"And this is what you would do with your time, then? Globe trek?"

"Wouldn't you, if you'd never been anywhere? I mean, I know your first choice would be to solve every crime in Britain, but say you couldn't do that anymore. I don't exactly see you retreating to the countryside to… I dunno, keep bees or something."

A thoughtful look passed over his face.

"I've always thought apiculture to be a worthwhile endeavor," he said. "Much more scientific than most people assume."

"Yeah?" she asked with a laugh, trying to picture him in a beekeepers outfit. "Well the day Sherlock Holmes decides to raise bees, I'll pack up my things and go with you. If only to see the proof of it myself."

He gave a small laugh, looking down into his glass. A moment of silence passed and she waited, knowing he was not done talking, not by half.

"You don't know the results yet," he repeated, not meeting her eye.

"No."

"What would you do?"

"Mastectomy."

His eyes shot up and stared at her outright, taken by surprise at the suddenness and assuredness of her answer.

"You've had that answer prepared for quite some time."

Molly nodded.

"Ever since my aunt fought the same fight when I was nineteen," she told him. She forced her expression to remain natural as she thought of how that battle had ended. "It's never been a question."

"The change wouldn't… bother you…"

"Why should it?" she asked defensively, her nerves tiring of his intrusiveness. "You'd be the first to point out I hardly have anything there to flaunt anyway."

A painful lump formed in her throat that was not solely the result of the hurt that flashed across his face. She was being a shit and she knew it, but it was all too much. Why should he care what she did with her own body since he felt bold enough to critique her physical appearance anyway? A change like that…what did it matter to him?

Sherlock put down the drink he had hardly touched and shifted on the cushion to fully face her. One of his arms rested along the back of the lounge, his hand lingering close enough to her to make his presence exceptionally strong.

"Have I ever said there was anything wrong with your body?" he asked her bluntly.

"I… you said I was compensating," she scrambled for the words, unsure of what he was getting at.

"No, ignore your visceral reaction to the words you heard," he interrupted, leaning a bit closer. "Have I ever said there was anything _wrong_ with your body?"

Molly replayed his horrible words at Christmas, the scene seared in her mind whether she wanted it to be or not. When she came up empty, she went back further to the first time he had made a comment about her. Her lips, specifically.

"You said my mouth was too small," she told him, feeling somewhat triumphant. "You said the lipstick was an improvement."

"An improvement, yes - I never said I didn't care for it to begin with."

The way Sherlock phrased things often only made sense in his head, she knew that well enough. If he was trying to tell her he hadn't meant to insult her with his barbs, she was having to stretch her imagination quite a bit to find his angle of the story. The doubt she had must have been plainly written on her face because he sighed and looked down, his hand flexing in his lap.

"I'm sorry if you interpreted what I said to mean that I thought you flawed," he muttered. "That was not my intention. Truthfully, when it comes right down to it, I consider you to be very pleasant to look at."

Molly momentarily forgot how to breathe. Unable to formulate a response to what he had just revealed to her, she forced out the only question she had left for him.

"If you knew all along that I was being tested for something, then why are you here? You told me it was because I missed work."

When he looked up at her, she felt a shiver go through her spine.

"People who abandon their lives in the face of news like that are not often looking at the world in the best light," he told her. "I was not about to let you be alone during this."

Oh.

_Oh_.

The answer snapped into place in her mind. He had come with her on purpose. Knew she was on a precipice and had followed her to make sure she made it through. She was blindsided by the revelation, almost unwilling to believe that he would do something like that for another person, let alone her.

Suddenly she realized he had moved closer to her. Her heart started beating rapidly in her chest and she froze, sure that the jolt of energy that shot through her could be felt by him as he ran a hand up her bare arm and to her neck, sliding it back into her hair to hold her in place. By the time his lips brushed experimentally against hers, her lungs seemed to have stopped working altogether. He hovered over her mouth for a moment, searching her eyes. When she couldn't manage a response, he pressed his lips to hers again, and her eyes slid shut as the kiss deepened. Her mind was roaring with sensations and it only got worse as he slipped his other arm around her waist, pressing her back into the arm of the lounge. She could feel the surprising strength of his muscles, the firmness of his chest against hers, the silken feel of his hair beneath her fingers as her hand moved to his head of its own accord.

When his mouth pulled roughly away from hers, dipping to her neck and causing her to shudder, her mind cleared a bit from the fog of the moment and she tightened her grip on him in an effort to anchor herself.

"You smell so sweet, Molly," he murmured into her skin.

She swallowed hard and fought back to the urge to sob. She wanted to cry more than anything because the moment she had waited so long for was finally happening and she knew she had to stop it. Pressing a palm to his chest, she pulled away and shut her eyes, thinking that if she couldn't see him it would be easier.

"What are you doing?" she asked softly.

"I think that's fairly obvious."

"But why now? Why this moment, Sherlock, when you've had years?"

"I want to. Isn't that reason enough?"

"Now that you think I might be sick and it's time to take pity on me. I don't need that."

"You've misunderstood, Molly."

"No, I don't think I have," she said, shaking her head as she slipped out from his arms.

She couldn't look at him when she stood up and walked haltingly to the edge of the porch, practically tripping down the stairs. Her eyes blurred with tears and she pulled in a shaking breath, fighting against her body screaming at her for abandoning what it had been craving for ages. The sand under her feet held onto the warmth of the day and the crescent moon glinted off of the calmed ocean. It set off a wave of anger in her because she wanted to just enjoy it, to pretend that nothing else in the world existed. She wanted to run back to the house and make Sherlock forget that Irene Adler ever existed. She also wanted him to piss off.

She wanted to know that everything would be all right when the sun rose tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that.

She wanted her dad to wrap her up in her favorite blanket and tell her everything was going to be okay, even if it wasn't.

The soft flannel nostalgia and the comforting words of her childhood were long gone, but Molly was not left to wade through her sorrow alone. It barely took two minutes before she felt his hands close carefully around her arms, pulling her to lean against his chest and wordlessly letting her know he was not about to be pushed away.


	6. Touch

**I want to thank everyone for the wonderful feedback and interest in this story. Every review and follow is very much appreciated.**

**And, as always, a huge thank you to the incomparable MizJoely for the beta eyes! You rock my socks!**

* * *

"Molly Hooper, I do not understand you," Sherlock said wearily. "And really, out of the two of us, you should be easier to navigate when it comes to sentiment."

His words vibrated in his chest and against her back, forcing her to feel his earnestness.

"S'your fault," she told him. "You're confusing the hell out of me."

"What would you like clarification on?"

Taking a breath, Molly stepped away and turned to face him.

"If you weren't trying to insult me, then why say all those things? At my _job_…at Christmas…"

Sherlock's lip curled back in discomfort, looking as though he would rather pull out his own tooth than admit to whatever feelings he had inside of him. She forced herself to remain immune to his reluctance, wanting him for once to stop pretending that there was no reason behind his behavior.

"It bothered me to think that you would act so ridiculous for someone," he said in a rush. "You never need to do all that to gain someone's attention, Molly…least of all mine."

"I – I don't understand."

"I didn't know it was…I was certain you had moved on," he said with a bit of hesitation.

"I rather thought that would make you happy," she said in confusion. "And how is that an excuse for what you said?"

He groaned and dragged his hands through his hair, shifting on the balls of his feet.

"It's not," he snapped. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't exactly have the same filter that seems to burden most of the people roaming this planet. I don't have a problem pointing out the obvious, and what I saw that night at the Christmas party was you feeling like you needed to be something you weren't in order to impress some idiot. Any man that brought that out in you was obviously shallow and not worth your time, but what I clearly failed to observe was that the idiot was me. As it's been pointed out to me that I have the temperament of a child, I'm afraid the behavior cannot be excused beyond that and there's no way to spin it as anything other than immature hair pulling, but the fact is, Molly, you've been under my skin for quite some time now."

Molly openly gaped at him.

"Wha…a-and you thought this would be a good time to get me out of your system, then?" she asked.

"I wouldn't be able to get you out of my system even if I wanted to, which I don't," he said, his voice rising a bit as he stepped towards her. He raised his hands up and closed his eyes, bringing his countenance back to something softer. Meeting her eyes, he took another step closer. "If you find out tomorrow that you have a fight ahead of you, I will be with you. And if you find out that life goes on as normal… I will still be with you. The outcome of that phone call does not alter my intentions. You are not a one-off, Molly, and this is not pity. Do you understand?"

Molly struggled to set her thoughts straight, to fully absorb the fact that Sherlock had essentially just confessed that he wanted to be with her. Not just as friends, platonic companions, and not just for a quick bout of interest. No, he was indicating long term. She wasn't even aware that he planned his life beyond the next big case – which was what made her worry.

"And when you get bored?" she asked, already preparing herself for the letdown. "When I get in the way of your work?"

His eyes flitted away for a moment, his face showing just a hint of hurt at her expression of doubt.

"I can't promise to be less driven than I ever have been," he said carefully. "Ask John – he still wants to rip my head off as often as not. But you are a part of my work, my life…a very important part, though I failed to fully recognize it for a long time. You saw me when no one else did, not even John. And you made me see you. I don't think I've stopped looking since."

It was tantamount to a full blown expression of adoration, she knew that. But it was so easy for him to say it here, to make professions here, away from the very distractions she fretted over.

At the moment, she found she couldn't care less. She had to risk something sometime, had to embrace the possibility of happiness when it presented itself, and happiness was currently tap dancing center stage with pyrotechnics going off.

She took the few short steps to close the space between them and put herself on tiptoe, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she claimed his mouth. His response was tentative surprise at first, but quickly turned eager as he wrapped both arms around her, palms firmly pressed against her back to bring her closer.

"Do you want…to go back to the house?" he asked against her lips.

Molly felt a shiver go through her at the mere suggestion in his voice. She broke away from him long enough to nod quickly. He took her hand in his and led her onto the porch and through the back door. Her foot barely landed on the first step when he tugged at her wrist, spinning her to face him again. Hands gripped restlessly at her hips as he leaned in to kiss her, pressing her back into the banister. She felt him nip hungrily at her bottom lip, and she instantly opened to him. If it hadn't been for the support of the banister and his arms, she would have sunk down into a puddle on the floor at the feel of his warm tongue meeting hers, his lips working wonderfully in tandem movements.

For a few moments, her body couldn't coordinate the desire to keep kissing Sherlock and the desire to continue up the stairs towards the bed. After two clumsy attempts to accomplish both, she stammered out what information she could to improve the situation.

"Sherlock, I can't…stairs…at the same time," she said, her voice far more breathy than she ever expected.

He somehow managed to interpret her rambling and released her. It only half improved her coordination as she staggered up the stairs in a state of giddy anticipation, Sherlock close on her heels.

The bedroom was dim with the only light drifting in from the lamps downstairs. It was enough to see the flush that had crept into his face, accentuated by the color the sun had given him over the last several days. If he was flushed, she probably looked like a valentine.

He slowed them as they neared the bed, slipping his arms around her waist again as his lips began an exploration of the skin below her ear. She let out a small noise of exasperation, wanting nothing more than for him to lower her to the bed and get on with things. The thought behind her huff must have been abundantly clear to him.

"I need to learn you, Molly," he said with a smile.

"What?" she asked, her brow furrowing in amusement.

"As much as I would like to pin you to the mattress and end both our curiosities as quickly as possible, I would be much happier to uncover the details about you that can really only be learned by experience," he said practically.

"Oh," she sighed, her eyes slipping shut as he stopped talking and started caressing her neck with his mouth.

There was a quiet intensity with which Sherlock went about 'learning' Molly, and by the time he had her out of her camisole and bra she was gripping his shoulders out of necessity to keep standing. And he'd barely even navigated below her waistline. Finding her mouth again, he pushed at her hips, encouraging her to back towards the bed. Her calves hit the mattress and she instinctively sat, Sherlock following her down as he knelt between her legs. Drawing one final kiss from her, he pulled away and turned his focus to removing her shorts, sliding his fingers into the waist band and drawing his fingertips along the curve of her arse as she lifted her hips to allow the fabric to slip off. His fingertips never left her skin while he slowly pulled the shorts down her legs, watching her carefully for every little reaction to his touch.

Molly couldn't remember ever being so aware of her own skin, of her body.

Now clad only in her simple cotton knickers, she moved with Sherlock as he rose up from the floor, pushing them further back onto the bed. He covered her body with his and she sighed at the feeling of his weight, not quite settled between her legs but deliciously firm against her nonetheless. For several minutes, they indulged in each other's mouths, hands running along skin and cotton, breath coming shorter and harder. When she felt his fingers hook around her knickers, she took the opportunity to grasp his wrist and flip them, coming to rest over his hips and feeling without a doubt how very much he wanted her. Sherlock stared up at her in surprise.

"You think you're the only one who gets to learn something?" Molly asked slyly.

He audibly swallowed and she delighted a little too much in the widening of his eyes.

She took her time, out of a playful sense of revenge and a desire to revel in a moment she had been certain would remain only in her dreams, sliding her hands under the hem of his shirt and feeling the warmth of his skin, the tone of his muscles. The shirt was discarded and she was free to learn every small spot that made Sherlock gasp, groan, or shudder. It was almost entertaining to watch him try his damnedest to rein in his reactions, not used to appearing so unfettered.

They were both hanging onto restraint by a thin thread when she undid his trousers, skipping his own method of delayed gratification and removing trousers and pants all at once. The tension in the room kicked up several notches, his hands landing on her arms to pull her to him, resuming his dominant position. Fingers determined not to be thwarted again shoved at her knickers and in seconds they were flesh to flesh. Molly quickly scooted to the edge of the bed, making a wild grab for her purse and digging around for a moment before coming up with a condom.

"Why do you have - "

"I am a single, adult woman and I don't like relying on men to take care of it," she explained rapidly, pulling at the foil with her fingertips. "I always keep one on me."

"I'm clean, Molly. So are you," he said, looking concerned that she perhaps doubted his sexual history. "And still on the pill, if I'm not mistaken."

"I'm going to ignore the fact that you know far too much about my medical records," she said, rolling her eyes before focusing on him again. "It's not that I don't trust you. I do. Completely. Someday, I'd like to…but for tonight…"

The need to finish her thought drifted away as he took the packet from her, doing as she asked without another word.

The tenderness with which he kissed her brought everything into sharp focus and she became hyperaware of every movement, every inch of his body against hers. With her eyes closed and her mind filling with the sensation of his mouth melding with hers, she felt his hips press rhythmically against her, slowly filling her and clutching her to him until she couldn't tell where she ended and he began.

It was nearly clumsy at first, trying to anticipate angles and tempo, but it wasn't long before Sherlock worked out what to do to turn her into a trembling mess gasping his name. She barely started coming down from her high when she felt him begin to speed up, losing control as he pulled at her hips, his full weight pressing into her, groaning her name into her hair.

Few words were spoken after that as Sherlock led her from the bed to the bathroom, turning the shower tap on and holding her to him under the spray of warm water as he leaned against the wall. The intimacy, so unexpected and so wonderful, flooded her with emotions. She buried her face in his chest, wishing she could freeze time. Or perhaps rip up her return ticket and live out the rest of her days wrapped in Sherlock's arms in tropical bliss.

She nestled into his side when they returned to bed, her hand clasped in his and resting on his chest.

"Try not to think about it," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"It's hard not to," she said.

"Think about something better. A good book. Cats." He paused and she could hear the smirk in his voice. "Me."

Molly nudged him with her shoulder, letting out a small laugh. She sighed and settled against him again, trying to do just as he said and turning her thoughts to more pleasant topics. The sound of his heartbeat slowly became her focus and it soothed her, eventually lulling her into sleep.

* * *

Her sleeping mind was still swirling with lingering euphoria from the night before when it was invaded by the unexpected sound of The Heartbreaks' "I Didn't Think It Would Hurt This Much To Think Of You." It took her a moment to return to consciousness and recognize that the sound was not part of her dreams. She bolted awake, rolling to her side to grasp for her phone on the nightstand, momentarily embarrassed that she hadn't thought to change her damn ringtone from one she had chosen in a period of moody self-reflection. Despite the embarrassment, her hand hesitated on the device as she sat up in bed, pulling the sheet close to her chest and trying to let her eyes adjust to the dawn light. Suddenly frozen with anxiety, she felt nervous adrenaline course through her body.

Then Sherlock's hand was on her arm, warm and solid, and she looked over to meet his eyes. He stared back at her with all the support in the world, nodding to the phone in encouragement.

Her thumb slid along the lock arrow and she lifted it to her ear.

"Hello?"

She listened intently to the sound of her doctor's voice, her heart thudding in her chest. She was vaguely aware of Sherlock lacing his fingers through those of her free hand, holding tightly until the conversation ended. Dropping the phone into her lap, she lowered her face into her hand and felt the tears prick in her eyes.

"Molly?..."

"Fibrocystic condition," she said breathily into her palm.

"What?"

Looking up at him, a relieved smile spread across her face.

"It was a fibrocystic growth," she said. "I'm fine."

His own relief flashed across his eyes; if she'd blinked, she would have missed it entirely. His hand came up to cup her face before he leaned in to kiss her. She kissed him back frantically, feeling the tears dry on her cheeks as every fear and worry that had been plaguing her dissipated, leaving her blissfully light. Pulling him close, she was surprised when he placed a firm kiss to her forehead after a few moments and sat up, grabbing her hand.

"C'mon," he said.

"What are we doing?" she asked, following him out of the bed and towards her suitcase.

"Get dressed and pack anything you think you might need or want for the day, food included," he said as he pulled on his trousers and headed towards the stairs.

"Sherlock, what - "

"Seeing the world, Molly," he called up at her as he descended animatedly.

In typical fashion, Sherlock hovered impatiently while Molly went about preparing coffee to go and snacks and sandwiches to bring with them. Knowing how he hurtled about from day to day with little regard to procuring food, she felt justified in ignoring his quips to hurry along. Even if he did do it in the most endearing way, tugging flirtatiously at her skirt and crooning her name. It was enough to make her think seriously about chucking the whole plan to leave the house and spending the rest of the day finding out exactly how many way she could make him groan her name.

The part of her that was far too curious about what he had planned won over in the end. In hardly any time at all, they were packed into the car and on the road.

At some point in the last five days, Sherlock must have memorized the roads of the island because he set off without instruction and seemed perfectly confident in his driving. They drove for a long while, the car climbing into the hills and eventually up into the mountainous terrain, putting them in the mist of the morning clouds. She took in the signs beginning to appear for Waimea Overlook and began to feel a sense of excitement. After many twists and turns, Sherlock finally turned into a car park. Molly unfolded herself from the car, her legs slightly cramped from the long drive and other recent physical activities.

They were high up into the mountains and the marine layer of clouds was just beginning to burn off as Sherlock led her towards the end of the lot. She didn't think it was possible to be so continually amazed by the beauty of the place, but here she was, breath taken again by the stunning view of the valley stretched from the overlook all the way to the azure of the ocean. Green trees and shrubs dotted the rust colored slopes of the jagged mountain ridges on either side of them. Molly had never felt so small and vulnerable in her life as she did standing at the edge of the canyon overlook. It was exhilarating.

She smiled, standing for a long time with the feel of Sherlock at her side and the fresh morning wind whipping her hair behind her.

"Several million years of geological activity, tectonic collisions and the spew of magma, weather and erosion – all culminating in this," Sherlock said rather poetically. "Mankind could never conceive of such a spectacle and will spend the rest of its time on this earth in awe of it."

"It's beautiful," Molly breathed.

"If you like that sort of thing," he said with a teasing smirk.

She smiled up at him and nudged his side.

"C'mon, then," she said. "What other bits of the world are you going to show me today?"

* * *

The hours of the day slipped away far too quickly for Molly's liking as they visited a botanical garden and cultural museum, lunched in the shade of a towering monkey pod tree, and finally settled at a beach-side café on the west side of the island for dinner at Sherlock's insistence.

"It's been bothering you the entire time that you haven't seen the sun set over the ocean," he said, easily slipping his hand into hers as he leaned back casually in his chair. "Thought I would do something about that."

Molly smiled softly and squeezed his hand, partly to continue to convince herself that this was not an hallucination and that he was truly here, doing all these nice things for her.

"I still can't quite believe this is…well, that you feel the way you do," she admitted.

"What further evidence do you need?"

"It's not a matter of evidence," she said gently. "I think anyone who knows you would be shocked at the turnaround. You haven't exactly been friendly to the idea of relationships, platonic or otherwise."

"I have never placed a great deal of trust in women before, Molly. There have been few to ever give me reason enough to trust them and fewer still have been useful beyond a single case. Too much emotion, too much self-interest and game playing. Not suitable to my interests." He stopped and lowered his gaze to their joined hands. "You have forced me to rework my hypothesis in this area. Without you, I very well may have perished at the hands of Moriarty. My trust in you was – _is_ – everything. You've seen me at my worst and you've borne it with a dedication yet to be rivaled by any woman I've met. I would sooner be chucked into the nuthouse than ignore the very obvious conclusion that I want to give you the same dedication."

"I think I like this change in you," Molly said with a smile.

"Yes, I do like to think I can make improvements in character when the occasion calls for it," he said smugly, his eyes twinkling.

"And modest as ever about it," she laughed.

The sun set on their last evening with all the rich hues of pink and orange streaked over the sea and black silhouettes of palm trees she could have hoped for. Once the stars began to populate the sky, they started on the trek back to the house and Molly felt a bittersweet emotion welling up inside of her. Her life had turned completely upside-down in a matter of days and she knew things would never be the same for her – hopefully, for the better.

When they were safely inside the house, Molly wasted no time in taking Sherlock by the hand and leading him upstairs, making good on her earlier desires to find out the many sides of his bedroom manner.

The memory of those activities was almost enough to tempt an induction into the mile high club on their return flight the next morning – particularly the memory of him shagging her senseless against the bedroom wall. She really had no idea that his thin, albeit muscular, frame had the stamina for that one.

Instead, she settled for resting her head against his shoulder, enjoying the feeling of his fingers idly drawing circles on her thigh just above her knee as she stared out the window at the expanse of sea and clouds below them.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Mahalo."

She felt his lips brush against her brow.

"You're welcome, Molly."

* * *

_Fin_


End file.
